TimeDancer: Daughter of Night
by Dr. Algae
Summary: A TimeDancing Brooklyn is cast into war-torn 15th Century Romania, where he finds himself standing between one of the last surviving gargoyle clans in Eastern Europe and the bloodthirsty armies of Vlad the Impaler, also known... as Dracula
1. Act I

Gargoyles _, co-created by Greg Weisman, is the property of the Walt Disney Company. Everything else belongs to history._

 _Special thanks as always to Masterdramon, Gryphinwyrm7 and BookwyrmPendragon13 for providing beta reading and feedback._

* * *

 **Transylvania,** **1456 A.D.**

"Hurry up!" the young night-winged gargoyle hissed, her whisper carried down the mountain as swiftly as her talons carried her up its rocky face. She looked back to see her rookery sister following behind, climbing up the cliff with more care and precision, if not speed.

"I s-s-still think w-we shouldn't be here," her rookery sister stammered back. She was mouse-brown and especially bulky for their age, little over eighteen winters, though utterly lacking in natural self-assertion. A more forceful personality might have made her the kind of bully who ruled the rookery with an iron talon. Instead, she'd always been the first to concede any argument.

Which is perhaps why the night-winged one had always gravitated towards her out of all their rookery siblings. Her mouse-brown sister needed someone to look out for her interests, to keep her from being taken advantage of. If she happened to occasionally prevail upon her for the odd favor here and there... Well that was only fair.

Which was probably how she had managed to convince her sister, despite a steady flow of complaining and pleading, to stray so far from the rookery on this of all nights.

As they reached the lip of the cliff overlooking a small gorge hidden deep in the mountains, they looked over their shoulders. Behind them a vast sea of rich green forest stretched as far as the eye could see. Just on the horizon, they could make out the warm orange glow that marked the Red City. Scattered among the woods were _other_ lights; cold blue flames that flickered enticingly on only a few very special nights of the year.

"Y-y-you realize our mothers and fathers would k-kill us if they found out we were out here t-tonight?"

"Well then, we'll just have to keep this to ourselves, won't we? Now be quiet!"

They huddled amid the crags, becoming as still and silent as true stone, and waited. The gorge was empty and lifeless for what seemed like an eternity.

"M-m-maybe they're not coming?" her sister whispered, turning to leave. "M-maybe we should head back and forget the whole…"

"Shhh…" she hissed, yanking her sibling back down.

They watched as several figures began making their way down the gorge in a slow silent procession. Each was clad in a hooded white robe. The robes were so all-concealing that the young gargoyles wondered if some of their own race might not hide beneath those hoods.

There had always been whispered rookery tales of long forgotten ancestors who had dared to make the trek to the hidden lake where the Evil One taught all secrets of nature, the language of animals, and every imaginable magic spell. Their elders never spoke of such things of course, save to make clear in no uncertain terms that any clan member even attempting such a thing should not bother returning… assuming they could.

Not that the night-winged one was _that_ foolhardy. This was as close as they had ever dared come to the lake, and it was quite enough excitement even for her.

Her sister chewed a talon pensively. "Ar-aren't there supposed to be ten of them?"

The night-winged hatchling peered over the cliff, counting the unholy pilgrims passing below. Her sister was right, only nine remained. "One has already been claimed," she whispered.

"D-d-dawn's only a f-few hours. W-w-we should head back."

The night-winged hatchling leaned forward just as the last white-robed figure was passing below. "Just a minute, I want to…"

A small stone came loose underneath the weight of her talons. Little more than a pebble, it bounced down the side of the gorge with carelessly merry abandon before softly striking the pale cowl of the last hooded shape.

It gazed upward.

The two sisters immediately dived behind the crags, not daring to so much as breath.

"Dawn's only a few hours, we should head back." the night-winged one conceded.

Her sister nodded silently as they both scrambled for a better vantage point to take wing. A little while later, they were riding the wind, the clear night air soothing and emboldening them.

"T-t-that was close,"

"Bah," she barked. "I'm just glad I didn't have to hurt them. If one of them had made a move…" She let out a modest roar, talons slashing defiantly at her immaterial foes.

Her sister giggled. "J-j-just promise me we won't do that again."

She gave an uncommitted shrug.

"P-p-please…"

"Fine… If you're going to be a big hatchling about it! Besides, I don't know what you're so worried about. We'll be back before anyone even realizes we're gone. It'll be like we never… Whoa!" She fluttered uncertainly in mid-air.

"Are y-you alright?"

"Yeah… must have been a freak updraft or…" Another gust of wind threw her off course.

"SISTER!" Her rookery sibling cried out as shrieking gales suddenly enveloped them, her hand desperately reaching out before they were both sent hurtling in opposite directions by the elements.

The night-winged gargoyle found herself utterly alone as the maelstrom buffeted her across the black sky, twisting and turning to the point she could no longer tell up from down. Icy winds clawed at her like countless unseen talons, and her ears ached with a sound like the howling of a thousand wolves. Next thing she knew, pain shot through her wing and she was plummeting through the tree tops, before coming to a sharp painful stop on the earthy forest floor.

She staggered to her feet as the storm continued to rage above and the rain began to pound down upon her. One of her wings hung limp in an unnatural manner, her shoulder burning in agony. She looked about the forest, trying to get her bearings. It all looked so different from down here. She vaguely recalled something about moss growing on the south of trees.

A bolt of lightning illuminated the sky, revealing several pairs of yellow eyes gleaming wickedly as they watched her from the undergrowth.

Her rookery parents had always thought her that wolves almost never attack gargoyles. She kept eye contact just as she had been thought and began to slowly, silently back away.

With every step she took back, the pack took one forward. Their white teeth gleamed wetly in their blood red maws. Her rookery parents had all agreed the most important thing when confronted by a wolf was to never ever run.

Obeying her rookery parents had never been her strong suit.

She tore through the undergrowth, heedless of her direction as claw like branches ripped at her skin. Her flight was cut short by a treacherous root catching her foot, sending her hurtling once more to the cold mud as a rock impacted against her skull. Her hand raised to probe her forehead, only to draw back with a hiss of pain. She looked down to see her talons covered with blood, then she looked up to see herself surrounded by at least a dozen wolves.

Her vision blurred, the wolves parted, and the last thing she saw before slipping into merciful unconsciousness was a white-robed figure silently stepping towards her.

[-]

 **Wallachia,** **1476 A.D.**

The warhorses' breath rose from their nostrils like smoke from a furnace, snow crunching under their heavy iron shod hooves. The Scot patted his own steed affectionately as he drew his heavy black cloak tightly against the chill of the Carpathian winter. All in all, it provided only marginal protection against the biting mountain winds. "With all due respect, Lord Bathory, I thought I was hired to hunt demons; not cow rogue Boyars into submission?" he said.

Beside the Scot rode a hulking figure clad entirely in ebon plate armor. His face was hard and angular like chiseled stone, framed by a wild black mane. Upon his shield was emblazoned the crest of a serpentine-green dragon entwined about a bone-white wolf's jaw. "You were hired to do as the Voivode commands, Canmore," the armoured giant growled.

"The Voivode?" the Scot mused. "I was under the impression King Corvinius placed _you_ in command of this expedition, my lord?"

"I don't like your insinuations, dog!" the black knight turned on the Scot with a snarl. "It's not the place of whelps to question the pack's elders."

"I only meant, my lord, that…" The Scot's words were drowned out as a thunderous screech, like that of some titanic falcon, shook ground beneath his horse's hooves. The steed reared in blind panic. At the exact same moment, the sky above suddenly filled with flames, forcing the two riders to shield their eyes.

Within moments, the flames vanish almost as swiftly as they had appeared. On the mountain road before the riders, lay two of the most bizarre creatures either men had ever seen. The first looked almost like a reptilian lion, a rich dark brown mane surmounting a jade hide.

The second creature was roughly manlike in shape save for the leather wings wrapped around itself. Its skin was a Hellish crimson. Its face was dominated by a huge vulture-like beak, devilish horns rising from its brow. The fiend was clad in little save a loin cloth, broadsword hanging from the belt.

"Wait!" A crimson talon quickly shot up from the prone form. "Just gonna need a sec," the creature groaned before disgorging the contents of its stomach upon the mountainside. "Okay… I think I'm good." The creature bared its fangs. "Hi, I'm Brooklyn."

"Demons!" The Scott shrieked. With one hand he swiftly donned a sable mask marred by three blood red slashes as the other unhooked a heavy iron mace.

Brooklyn barely had time to dodge before the Hunter's mace nearly crushed his skull. The young gargoyle drew his own weapon in turn. "You'll have to remind me, have we met? You Hunters all kinda blend together after a while."

"I am the _last_ Hunter ye will ever see, monster!" He shrieked as he swung once more.

Brooklyn parried the Hunter's weapon with his own while his free hand reached for the human's black hood and forcibly yanked it down over his face, sending the Scot scrambling into a snow bank. "If only…" the gargoyle sighed wistfully.

He'd barely had time to turn before an armoured fist collided with his face.

"On your feet, _ördög!_ " the armoured figure bellowed as his steel clad boot delivered a vicious kick to the still dazed gargoyle's ribs. "I would see what standard of warrior Hell breeds!"

"And you are?" Brooklyn groaned through clenched teeth.

"I am Lord Bathory Istavan; Knight of the Order of the Dragon, Commander of the Black Army. I was hand chosen by King Corvinus himself restore this land's true Voivode, and cleanse it of heathen and Hellspawn alike! And you, _ördög_ …" The black knight unsheathed a massive broadsword from his scabbard, raising it high above his head. "Are a grave disappointment."

Before the steel blade could fall, something green and snarling slammed into the black knight with all the force of a small rhino. The armoured figure impacted the rocky mountainside with a painfully audible crunch.

"Good Fu-Dog!" Brooklyn staggered to his feet. He hooked his arms beneath the beast's shoulders before leaping into the valley below, allowing the fierce mountain winds to fill his wings.

"This isn't over, demon!" The Hunter shrieked at empty sky. "I'll hunt yer kind to the ends of the Earth and to the Day o' Judgement if I have to! You hear me, demon! You canne hide forever!"

"Enough, Canmore!" A heavy armoured hand pressed down on the Hunter's shoulder. "Raging at empty air accomplishes nothing. Once we find where they roost…" Bathory's lips peeled back in a wolfish sneer. "The Voivode will make that _ördög_ wish we'd gutted him here and now."

[-]

Brooklyn's wings gave out after about half a mile under Fu-Dog's weight, forcing gargoyle and beast to make a rather ungracious landing in a snow drift at the foot of the mountains.

"Okay…" Brooklyn grunted as he shoved the lumpy beast off of him. "Time somebody lay off the dumplings."

The Fu-Dog simply cocked his head in response, giving a bemused whine as his master extracted himself from the snow drift.

"I'm guessing by the Hunter and his tin-plated buddy, we're in medieval Europe which… doesn't really narrow things down much." The TimeDancer scanned the horizon 'til his eyes fell upon what looked like half a dozen farmsteads huddled about a crossroads somewhere to the south. "Looks like as good a place to get our bearings as any."

Brooklyn crept stealthily towards the small village at first. His Fu-Dog loping silently behind. The last thing he wanted was to risk provoking a mob of angry torch and pitchfork wielding peasants… again.

As they drew closer to the nearest cottage however, it became clear something was very wrong. Charred huts stood empty and exposed, their thatched roofs burnt. Scattered among the ruins, they occasionally happened upon the bloated carcasses of sheep, goats and other livestock buried under a thin layer of snow. Though not a single human. What disturbed Brooklyn most was that every animal seemed untouched by either predator or scavenger.

Fu-Dog began whimpering in the most pitiful manner, scratching at his master's leg pleadingly.

"Yeah, boy… I don't think I wanna hang around here either." The young gargoyle warrior turned back down the dirt road, only to find his way blocked by about a dozen silent shrouded figures.

"It's okay… I'm not gonna hurt you…" he spoke softly as he raised his talons well away from his weapon. "Me and my uh… dog are just a little lost is all."

The shrouded figures made no response, no movement. Somehow Brooklyn found that more unsettling than the usual panic and screaming most humans greeted him with. Under their tattered shrouds, their limbs looked pale and emancipated in a way that reminded him uncomfortably of famine victims. "Hey… You hungry?" He gingerly reached into a small pouch on his belt, withdrawing some dried meat he'd picked up on his last dance.

Fu-Dog snarled, his eyes flaring white.

"Fu-Dog, quiet!" Brooklyn snapped as he stepped towards the nearest figure. "Sorry 'bout him. He's just a little over protective." He broke off a small piece of his ration, taking a light nibble himself by way of demonstration. "See, it's good… kinda."

As the gargoyle drew within arm's length of the lead figure, a cold wind suddenly picked up, briefly sweeping aside the ragged cloth. From beneath stared a ruined visage that was barely recognizable as human. One eye had withered into little more than a scarlet pinpoint in a hollow eye socket. The other had swollen into a blood soaked plum. Pale shredded strips of what must have once been the thing's lips hung about a fanged and gore-stained maw.

"Holy…" The stunned Brooklyn did not even have time to reach for his broadsword before the entire pack pounced upon him.

Fu-Dog roared as he lunged at the inhuman horde swarming over his master. Fang and claw desperately tore at a wall of cold unliving flesh, before pale talons clamped about the beast's throat and sent him hurtling across the square.

One of the creatures snapped viciously at Brooklyn's throat, only to be blocked at the last minute by the gargoyle's forearm. Pain flared through his arm as the creature's vice-like jaws tightened, tearing flesh and testing bone to its breaking point. Blood began to trickle from the wound, only driving the things into a further frenzy.

Then everything went still. The creatures froze, their swollen eyes turned as one to something further up the road. Brooklyn twisted his neck around to see what had so transfixed them.

A small burst sack lay in the snow. Countless poppy seeds spilled across the road. The next thing Brooklyn knew, the things had abandoned him, leaping upon the pile of scattered seeds. They huddled over it, carefully picking through each minute granule as they whispered unintelligibly to themselves.

Brooklyn scrambled towards the still prone Fu-Dog, the gargoyle beast only now rousing itself back to consciousness. "Come on, boy. We need to move before they…"

The night was suddenly shattered by a pantherish roar as something swooped down upon the undead horrors from the sky above. Brooklyn saw something metallic flash before one of the creature's heads slid from its shoulders. Then his jaw dropped.

A female gargoyle, no older than himself, moved with animalistic grace as she hacked her way through the abominations; fire hardened stake in one hand and silver edged battle-axe in the other. Her skin was a deep, almost black, midnight blue. The lining of her leather wings a rich crimson. Her hair a ghostly white. Her face was unlike that of any gargoyle Brooklyn had ever seen before, almost bat-like with its upturned nose and high sharply pointed ears.

Brooklyn's sluggish thought processes were jolted forward by the sight of a creature leaping at his rescuer from behind. "Look ou…"

With one fluid motion, she drove the stake deep into the thing's rib-cage. With another catlike movement she spun, decapitating the thing before it even had a chance to hit the ground.

Brooklyn blinked for a few moments before function returned to his mouth. "Wow… that… that was…"

"Down!" she roared.

Brooklyn hit the dirt as something whizzed past him, striking the creature that had been stalking up from behind him through its heart. Brooklyn stared as the horror's flesh began to sluice and crumble from its bones, as though he were watching the natural process of decomposition in fast forward.

"Sorry!" a third voice called out as yet another gargoyle dropped from the skies. Despite how young she sounded, Brooklyn thought the newcomer could have given Goliath a run for his money in the muscles department. She was a mouse-brown giant, sharing the same bat-like features as her rookery sister. Her fur was stained black in several places by soot, the mark of a blacksmith. She wore a thick leather belt from which hung a dozen jangling tools. The giant gingerly brandished what could either have been a very large crossbow or a small ballista. "Jammed…" she offered.

Brooklyn's mind raced as he looked down on the swiftly rotting things that had been trying to kill him mere moments ago… "Those… those were…"

"Strigoi, failed experiments cast off by the Scholomance. They're usually not so bold but the slaughter left in the Black Army's wake only encourages them." The night-winged female offered the still prone Brooklyn her hand. "You're fortunate we spotted you when we did."

"Uh... thanks." He took the hand gingerly as she pulled him to his feet. "I'm Brooklyn."

She arched an eyebrow ridge. "What is a… 'brook linn'?"

"No… it's my name," he responded.

"Oh…" She traded a bemused look with her rookery sister before turning back to Brooklyn and nodding politely. "It is very nice."

"I spotted a Hungarian patrol a little to the north as we glided over," the soot covered giant rumbled.

"Let's work swiftly then." The night-skinned female turned back to Brooklyn. "I would hate to save you from the strigoi only to deliver you into the hands of the Impaler."

Now it was Brooklyn's turn to cock an eyebrow ridge. "The who?"

[-]

 **Târgoviște**

Bathory and Canmore rode through the streets of Wallachia's newly reconquered capital. A few isolated fires still burned across the city, giving the skyline a dull hellish aura.

As the two riders approached the palace walls, they were challenged by two armed footmen. The brightly colored tassels accentuating their mail marked them as Szgany conscripts, members of the Voivode's personal guard.

"Hold," one barked. "What lord do you serve?"

"A lord is a lord," Bathory responded. "Even in Hell."

The guards stood aside, seemingly satisfied, as Bathory and Canmore passed through the gates and into the palace courtyard. Once through the gates, the Scot could not help but cross himself at sight which greeted him.

Dozens of decomposing forms, most of them clad in the robes of Boyars, hung from as many towering wooden spikes. Amid this forest of death, an exquisite banqueting table had been prepared. Its elegance and finery seemed obscene against the backdrop of such carnage.

A single figure sat at the table. He was clad in crimson armor the shade of dried blood, a sable wolf pelt slung across his shoulders. A heavy iron-grey mustache hung over a lupine jaw. Two living wolves sat curled about his feet, their hungry yellow eyes never straying from the newcomers.

Their host rose from his seat, brandishing a golden jeweled chalice high by way of greeting. "Welcome to my house. Come freely. Go safely; and leave something of the happiness you bring!"

Though Canmore had yet to meet the infamous Voivode face to face, there could be little doubt who stood before him. "Yer Highness?" he said interrogatively.

Their host nodded.

"I am Dracula."

 _ **To be Continued...**_


	2. Act II

Gargoyles _, co-created by Greg Weisman, is the property of the Walt Disney Company. Everything else belongs to history._

 _Special thanks as always to Masterdramon, Gryphinwyrm7 and BookwyrmPendragon13 for providing beta reading and feedback._

* * *

 **Wallachia,** **1476 A.D.**

Brooklyn and his new found comrades soared over the Carpathian Mountains. Fu-Dog was being carried in the arms of the crossbow wielding giant. The Manhattan gargoyle's own arm still hung in an improvised sling.

Far behind him, he could just make out a tiny smoldering orange speck on the horizon. Before leaving, the Carpathian gargoyles had insisted on setting the entire village and what remained of its once human inhabitants to the torch.

Beside him glided the night-winged female, her dark midnight-blue skin making her seem like part of the starry sky itself. Her silver mane flowed in the wind like liquid moonlight. Her flat upturned nose had struck him as odd at first but the closer he looked the more elegant it seemed, almost…

"Is something wrong?" she asked.

Only then did Brooklyn realize he'd been staring. "Oh right… um…" he blurted, half hoping the Phoenix would reappear and swallow him then and there. "So this Impaler guy is… Dracula? Like… _the_ Dracula?"

"The Son of the Dragon, yes." She cocked a brow-ridge. "You are familiar; I take it?"

"Oh sure; Bela Lugosi, Christopher Lee, Gary Oldman…"

She exchanged another quizzical look with her sister, who merely shrugged her massive shoulders in response. "Yes, well… The Impaler and his Hungarian dogs have been cutting a bloody swath through the land for months now."

"They control almost all of Wallachia now," her sister added. "Save a handful of hold outs like Bucharest, one or two rogue Boyars and…"

"Our home!" The night-skinned female pointed ahead.

Before them rose a sheer cliff-face of grey rock, towering over even the surrounding mountains. Nestled upon its summit was a ghostly edifice of pale white stone and auburn spires.

"Welcome, my friend… to Castle Poenari."

The four of them came in for a landing on the castle's battlements, Fu-Dog wriggling out of the giant Carpathian's arms at the first opportunity.

"I see you brought guests?" A voice spoke from the shadows.

Brooklyn spun around to be greeted by a hunched figure clad in dark grey robes, not more than four feet high at the most, leaning on a gnarled ash cane. Her skin was a very pale grey, eyes blank and milky white. It was as though the centuries had gradually bleached the very color from her. Her features followed the same bat-like pattern as the other Carpathians, save that her face was a mass of leather folds. She was quite possibly the oldest gargoyle he had ever seen.

"Honored Ancestor." The night-skinned female bowed. "This is Brooklyn of Manhattan."

The Ancestor nodded. "You and your beast should find somewhere comfortable to roost, dawn approaches."

"Wait," replied Brooklyn. "I should probably talk to your clan's Leader first."

They all froze as the night-skinned female turned on him. "I _am_ the Leader." She gestured to her sister. "This is my second."

"But… you can't be any older than me?" Brooklyn blurted out to his instant regret.

The Carpathian Leader's eyes hardened. "You should rest. I have matters to discuss with the Ancestor." She drew her wings about herself as the two of them stalked off, melding into the shadows.

Brooklyn felt his wings droop as the heavy hand of the Carpathian Second fell on his shoulder.

"You don't talk to females much, do you?"

[-]

 **Târgoviște**

"Stephan's forces are already entrenched around Bucharest. The city will fall within the week!" Bathory barked proudly as one of the three handmaidens tending the banqueting table refilled his tankard. "All but two of the remaining Boyars have pledged themselves to your cause, and even they will bend soon enough. If not…" The Hungarian thrust his dagger upwards in a vaguely obscene gesture and broke into howling laughter.

The Voivode allowed himself merely the faintest of smiles in response, the corner of his lips curling up in a lupine leer. "You disapprove, friend Canmore?"

Canmore looked up from the meal he had been attempting to consume. The stench filling the charnel courtyard had not helped. "I am a Hunter, yer Highness. I've no scruples about slaying demons or men foolish enough to serve them, but I've never seen any purpose in unnecessarily drawing out my prey's suffering."

"Insolent cur!" Bathory roared, driving his dagger deep into the table. "You dare sit in judgement of us! We who've spent our lives safeguarding the borders of Christendom so that the princes of your damp little island could waste gold and blood squabbling among themselves like petulant children! I should gut you here and…"

The Voivode raised a pale hand. "Peace, Istavan. Friend Canmore is a guest in our lands. It is only natural that our ways seem strange to him."

"I dinnea mean any insult, my lords."

"You understand the spirit of the hunter, my friend, but you do not know the burden of the crown." The Voivode stared into the golden jeweled chalice, marshaling his thoughts. "This cup was given to my father on his induction into the Order of the Dragon. In due time, it was passed down to me. During my previous reign, I had it left by a flowing spring so that all might quench their thirst. For six years it set there, unguarded, and not one soul dared remove it from its proper place. Can you guess why?"

Canmore looked up, where the hollow eyes of some disfavored Boyar stared back at him from atop a wooden spike.

The Voivode smiled at the understanding. His head cocked slightly as somewhere in the distance, a cock heralded the dawn. "Forgive me, my friends. I've kept you from your well-earned rest. My servants shall see you to your chambers." He rose, bowing slightly before turning to the palace.

He paused briefly behind Canmore's seat. "I will rely greatly on your counsel in ridding my land of the demons that plague it. I hope, when that day comes, you will think of me… as your friend."

[-]

 **Castle Poenari**

Brooklyn awoke with a deafening roar, scattering flakes of stone in all directions. He looked out over the castle's battlements, where twilight was already casting its soft purple tones over the snow covered mountains.

He experimentally flexed his now healed arm. Other than some slight tenderness, he'd never have thought it had been mauled by an undead abomination just the night before.

Nearby, Fu-Dog was busily shaking the few remaining stone flakes from his gold-brown mane.

"Guess we better see about breakfast, eh boy?"

The courtyard was dominated by a large fire pit over which hung a small cauldron. The thin looking stew within barely looked like enough to feed the dozen or so Carpathian gargoyles already waiting in line, and Brooklyn already owed these people his life. He turned away only to be confronted by the 'Honoured Ancestor' standing behind him as though she had been there all day.

"GAGH! How… how do you do that?"

"Experience." The ancient gargoyle smiled knowingly, holding out two bowls of stew. "You and your beast must be hungry?"

"Oh… You don't have to do that. We can just hunt something up in the…"

"Hatchling," she cut him off, her face turning stern. "I don't know how they do things in 'Manhattan' but in this part of the world, insulting the hospitality of one's host is a very grave matter indeed."

Brooklyn took the two bowls without further argument, placing one down for Fu-dog before making himself comfortable in front of the fire.

"So…" The Ancestor produced a third bowl as she seated herself. "Tell me of this Manhattan island, is it near France?"

"Uh… no, further west… waaay further west." He sipped the stew which seemed to be some sort of lamb and onion affair seasoned strongly with garlic. "Why France?"

"Our clan has kin in France, though we have not heard word of them since…" she sighed heavily. "Well, a long time."

"Sorry, wish I could help." Brooklyn surveyed the courtyard. Save for the Ancestor, barely any of the Carpathian gargoyles looked older than himself. One of the few exceptions was a twilight-purple male. Pale twin scars ran down his back where mighty wings must once have risen.

"The wars took a heavy toll on our clan," the Ancestor answered his unspoken question.

"The wars against Dracula?"

"The wars _for_ Dracula," she corrected.

"What?!" Brooklyn almost spat out a lamb morsel. "If this guy's such a monster, why would you ever fight for him?"

"Years ago, the Impaler captured… one of our hatchlings. For five years, he held her hostage in this very castle. For five years, we fought his wars, butchered his enemies and made ourselves willing accomplices to his every atrocity… all for the love of a single child." Her blank milky eyes regard Brooklyn coldly. "You know what the worst part is?"

He shook his head mutely.

"I'd do it again."

Brooklyn was silent for a while as he stared into his stew. "So what happened to her? The hostage, I mean."

"When the Turks invaded, the whole land was thrown into chaos. In the confusion, she managed to escape after a fashion. With his hold on us broken, we left the Impaler to what we thought would be his final fate. Unfortunately, he managed to flee to Hungary where he spent years worming his way into their King's favor. Ever since, his remaining followers have hunted us for betraying him; and his enemies… for not betraying him sooner."

Brooklyn's eyes widened as something occurred to him. "Wait… this castle belonged to Drac?"

She nodded. "Built by disfavored Boyars he enslaved and worked unto death."

"Then why stay here?"

"It's the last place he'd look."

"Well yeah, but he _is_ gonna look sooner or later?"

"A gargoyle can no more stop protecting the rookery than breathing the air." She intoned fatalistically.

"You have a rookery?"

"Sixteen eggs in all," she nodded. "Too few to risk carrying away on foot, too many to carry by wing."

Brooklyn watched as a charred leaf danced in the air over the fire. "Maybe not."

[-]

"The Xanadu Clan kept five different rookeries for breeding beasts." Brooklyn gestured to Fu-dog, who sat attentively by a clutch of large eggs in the corner of the damp dungeon. "They were hidden in about as many different mountain temples. Whenever they had to transfer a bunch of eggs from one to the other, they'd use these."

The Carpathian Leader hunched over the crudely drawn diagrams Brooklyn had spread out on the floor. Her eyes narrowed. "And they taught you how to build one of these… devices?"

"Sure, helped build one myself. It was the least I could do after I trashed the first one." Blood rushed to Brooklyn's head once he realized he had said that out loud. "But there weren't any eggs in it at the time!"

The Carpathian Leader turned to her Second. "Can it be done?"

"In theory." The Second chewed a soot covered talon thoughtfully. "The principle is sound enough, it's just a matter of building something workable on a large enough scale. We'll need supplies though, canvas, pitch, rope…"

"Draw up a list," the leader commanded before turning back to Brooklyn. "We will acquire your supplies."

It may have been Brooklyn's imagination, but he would have sworn she had placed special emphasis on the word 'we'. He couldn't help but blush warmly as the Carpathian leader regarded him.

He had a good feeling about this.

[-]

The next night found Brooklyn staring down into a mountain gorge as a human caravan passed below. "I have a bad feeling about this."

"Those are Saxon merchants, carrying shipping materials to the port in Galati," the Carpathian Leader whispered. "Materials we need for _your_ plan. If you're worried about bloodshed, don't be. They'll scatter at the first sign of trouble."

"You don't know that."

"Brooklyn…" She looked into his eyes. "Are you with me or not?"

Brooklyn glanced about. Half a dozen other young warriors lay in wait among the crags, ready to pounce at a word. One was a small green Carpathian who couldn't have been much older than eighteen. His face was set in a grim expression, but the trembling of his talons betrayed him. The poor kid must have been scared out of his mind.

Then Brooklyn looked back to the night-winged female, her eyes watched him expectantly. "Okay… I'm in."

The Carpathian Leader let loose a long wailing howl that pierced the night. The Saxon merchants looked up in horror, praying to God for deliverance, as a pack of winged demons descended upon them.

[-]

 **Bucharest**

The city had fallen almost a week to the day after Lord Bathory's drunken boast in Târgoviște. Once the full might of the Black Army had been brought to bear, the siege became little more than a formality.

Canmore watched from the shadows as the Voivode led a triumphal procession through the streets. Alongside him, rode Bathory and the other captains of the combined host sent to reclaim Wallachia for Christ.

There was King Stephan of neighboring Moldavia, cousin to the Voivode. Beside him rode Vuk Grgurević, the self-professed Despot of Serbia. Baron Karnstein of far off Styria rode aloof from the others, his ebon visor completely concealing his features. Not to mention several other lords whose names currently escaped Canmore. Each wore a blood-red cloak over a scale-green tunic, the sacred colors of the Order of the Dragon.

Peasants lined the streets, cheering and tossing wild roses before their 'liberators'. The Scot couldn't help but wonder if they'd have been so enthusiastic without the countless Hungarian troops looming over them.

"Lord Canmore?" a voice spoke from the shadows.

The Scot turned to be greeted by one of the Voivode's Szgany guards. He had read that when the Szgany pledged themselves to a lord they took on his name and religion, becoming little more than an extension of their patron's will. Looking at this man, Canmore could well believe it. He seemed to have taken on something of his master's lean wolfish cast.

"Ay?"

The guard bowed low. "I bring word… of the demons."

[-]

Gloom pervaded the dining hall of the Voivode's Palace, lit only by a handful of candles. Across the long banqueting table had been spread a large map of the Carpathians. Thirteen figures loomed over it; twelve clad in the scarlet and emerald of the Dragon, and one in the simple black of the Hunter.

"The raids occurred here… here… and here." Canmore marked off the locations with his quill. They were all in northern Wallachia, where the dreaded mountains marked the borders of the small principality.

"What did they steal?" King Stephan inquired. "Food, weapons, gold?"

The Scot shrugged. "Mostly shipping supplies bound for Galati; canvas, pitch, some lumber."

"What do you suggest, Canmore?" Bathory sneered. "That the _ördögök_ are building a boat atop some mountain?"

The Scot bit back a retort. "I would not presume to know, my lord. What's important is the demons would not have strayed far from their nest. Now we at least know where to start looking.

"Oh… she is bold." The Voivode chuckled darkly, draining the last dregs from his father's chalice.

"Yer Highness?"

"They are there…" The Voivode marked a spot near the Arges river with a long talon-like fingernail. "Castle Poenari."

"How can you be certain, Vlad?" King Stephan asked again

"I am, Stephan… that is enough," the Voivode spoke coolly. "Istavan, prepare a strike-force, we march for Poenari at dawn. By this time tomorrow we will have scourged this infestation from our lands once and for all."

"Forgive me, yer Highness," Canmore interjected. "But even at full march, we'd never reach the castle before sunset. If we wait, it would be a simple matter to take them during the day and…"

"Shatter them as they sleep? Grant them a swift easy death?" the Voivode asked. "No, Canmore. These beasts have cost me too much in blood and pain to afford them such mercies."

"Afraid, Canmore?" Bathory barked, "I thought you hunted these beasts?"

"There's a difference between bravery and recklessness, Lord Bathory." Canmore gritted his teeth, almost losing patience with the loutish Hungarian. "The demons possess strength beyond the ken of mortal man. It's dangerous to challenge a whole clan o' them without either daylight or overwhelming numbers."

"There is another way." The Voivode's voice was little more than a whisper, yet all eyes instantly turned to him when he spoke.

The Hunter cocked his head. "I'm not certain I follow, Yer Highness?"

The Voivode rose from his throne, bearing the golden chalice. "In my youth, I was an avid student of alchemy and other… arts. Arts which can make a mortal warrior the master of any beast or demon."

"You speak of… sorcery, Vlad?" Stephan's face paled.

"Sorcery is a small word, cousin, used by small minds to attack what they do not understand. A man of will and righteousness do not balk to wield whatever weapons the Almighty makes available to him." As he spoke, he took a dagger from the scabbard at his belt, it's golden pommel shaped like a snarling dragon. Then he drew the blade along his palm, allowing a scarlet trickle to flow into the chalice.

He wordlessly offered the dagger to his cousin who, after a moment of hesitation under the Voivode's gaze, followed suit. One by one, each Dragon Knight gingerly offered a portion of precious crimson to the golden cup. Finally, the Voivode raised a hand over the blood filled chalice, his fingers moving in arcane patterns as he whispered a low incantation.

" _Setebos venite."_

Instantly, the dining hall was filled with a rushing wind that quenched the few meager flickering candles, throwing the chamber into Stygian blackness.

The hairs on the back of Canmore's neck stood up. Every instinct screamed at him. He could neither see nor hear anything in the gloom but he knew with absolute certainty…

Something else was in the chamber with them.

That something was currently passing chillingly close to the Scot, its presence as palpable as a spiritual miasma. A stench like stagnant water grew stronger as something clipped softly against the stone floor, like the stealthy steps of hooved feet. Then he saw it loom before him faintly, a mass of even deeper shadow amid the darkness.

His hand reached for the hilt of his sword as the thing silently drew closer until…

The Voivode relit a candle, filling the chamber with dim light.

Canmore looked about. Apart from himself and the Dragon Knights, the chamber was utterly empty of life. Everything was exactly as it was before with one exception.

The once scarlet blood in the golden chalice had turned black as pitch.

"Now what?" Stephan asked breathlessly.

The Voivode took the chalice, and to the horror of all present, drank deep of the ebon elixir. He raised the golden cup high, lips still hideously stained. "Who will drink with me?" He roared. "Who will drink of the Dragon's blood?"

The room was dead silent for a long moment, before Bathory finally stepped forward and took a long lusty drought from the unholy grail. The Voivode grasped the Hungarian's forearm and whispered. "Old friend, ever shall I be in debt to the House of Bathory."

Bathory nodded silently before turning back to the assembled warriors. "Well… what are you slovenly dogs waiting for? DRINK!"

Canmore watched as the once silent hall suddenly erupted in a frenzy as the each Dragon Knight rushed to drink of the arcane brew before his fellows. Baron Karnstein eventually won the dubious honor, wordlessly guzzling before another pried the chalice from his fingers with a wild oath.

One by one, they drank until…

"Canmore…" the Voivode spoke.

The Scot raised his head, they all glared at him with something almost like hunger.

"We have all partaken… save you." The Voivode wasted no time forcing the Chalice into the Scot's hands.

He looked down into the sickly black dregs that remained. His own face stared back at him as though from an obsidian mirror.

Then his gaze met the Voivode's. Staring into those twin shards of ice, he suddenly understood how the Prince of this tiny Balkan fiefdom had swayed kings and sultans. It was something in the man's eyes; something that emptied you out and filled the void with himself, his essence, his will.

"Come…" the Master whispered. "Hunt by my side."

[-]

 **Castle Poenari**

The Leader of the Carpathian Clan sat upon the red-tiled roof of the highest tower. The grey light of dawn was just beginning to creep over the horizon, casting a faerie glimmer over snow covered mountains. The entire landscape looked as though the gigantic waves of some titan sea had been instantly frozen at the height of a tempest.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

She turned to be greeted by the red newcomer. He was leaning nonchalantly against the metal spire that rose from the tower's apex.

"Pardon?" she asked.

"Figure of speech," he shrugged. "Honestly, I'm not sure it's been invented yet. Basically means you look like you have a lot on your mind."

She turned her gaze back over the land. "I've lived in these mountains for most of my life. Sometimes I forget just how… beautiful they are."

"Yeah… you never really appreciate home until it's gone," he sighed sadly. "Your Second sent me up here. She says 'Plan B' is just about finished. She wants to take it for a couple of test spins first but it should be ready in another night or two."

"Good," she intoned without a hint of enthusiasm.

He looked crestfallen. "You don't think it will work?"

"It gives my clan hope, and for that I cannot thank you enough. But… even if we escape with our rookery, there is nowhere we can be safe. The Impaler is relentless, merciless… he'll hunt us unto the gates of Hell itself."

"You sound awfully sure of that?" he asked.

"I know him," she whispered softly.

His eyes widened in understanding. "You… you were the hatchling Drac took hostage?"

She was silent for a moment. "About a month after I was captured, one of my guards neglected to properly secure my shackles. I made it almost a mile before I was shot down and dragged back before... _him._ "

"What happened."

"He stood before a roaring fire, iron poker in hand. He spoke softly… calmly, but I could sense the rage bubbling just under the surface. He thrust the poker again and again into the flames until it glowed hellish red."

Brooklyn said nothing.

"He said he considered himself well within his rights to burn my eyes from their sockets. I can still remember the heat of the poker as he wafted it in front of my face. I tried to be stoic, tried not to give him the satisfaction of seeing the fear in my eyes but… I'd never been more terrified in my entire life."

"What happened," Brooklyn asked reluctantly.

"He said I was too valuable a trophy to damage and… and that the first lesson of leadership was that others always suffer for _your_ mistakes. Then he had the guard who had failed to properly secure me dragged in…"

"My God…" Brooklyn whispered.

"Every night for five years I was trained and tutored in the arts of war, science and politics, prepared for the time when I would eventually return to my clan and lead it in the Impaler's name. And at the end of every night, I was lead back to my cell, where I could hear the condemned as they were impaled alive in the courtyard below… men… women… Every night, I covered my ears and prayed to whatever god would listen for the dawn to come swiftly."

"The Ancestor said you escaped?"

"After a fashion," she sighed. "Eventually I was released to my clan on the condition that I be made Second and take a personal oath of loyalty to the Impaler. When the Turks invaded, he and our Leader at the time mounted a raid on the Sultan's camp. In the confusion, our Leader was struck by a Turkish arrow. The wound seemed slight at first but there was some poison or sorcery in the weapon even stone sleep could not cure. He was dead within three nights."

"So you became leader?" Brooklyn asked.

She nodded. "Later, the Impaler brought me a Turkish archer he claimed was responsible and ordered me to skin him alive."

He was afraid to ask the next question but he knew it would haunt him for the rest of his life if he did not. "Did…?"

"No…" She shook her head. "I ran… and I haven't stopped running since. And because of my cowardice my clan is damned!" Tears began flowing freely from the Carpathian's eyes as she collapsed into Brooklyn arms. "He won't shatter them in their sleep! That won't be enough for him! He'll make them suffer first! And he'll make me _watch!_ "

Brooklyn had often fantasized about what he would do if an attractive female, usually Maggie or Angela, ever threw herself into his arms crying. He'd always thought he'd know just the right to say when the time came. Something terribly romantic or witty that would dry away any pretty lady's tears.

Now that it was actually happening, he just felt sick and ashamed and impotent. What the Hell could he possibly say in the face of such horror? What could anyone say?

"Brooklyn…" she whispered softly as her fingers gently stroked his brow ridge.

"I…" He had to say something now… _anything!_ But whatever it was would have to be left unsaid as the sun rose high over the Carpathians, freezing them both in a stone embrace.

[-]

Brooklyn and the Carpathian Leader roared in unison as the crimson sun slipped beneath the horizon. Their eyes blazed scarlet and white respectively as shed their stone skin. The two gargoyles awkwardly disengaged. The passions of pre-dawn seemed out of place in the cool clarity of twilight.

"Look… about last night…" Brooklyn began to stammer. "I don't want you to think that… I mean…"

She rose silently to her feet, staring far past him. He followed her gaze.

" _Jalapeña…_ "

Hundreds of human warriors, clad in ebon armor, stood assembled before the gates of Castle Poenari. Countless crimson banners, emblazoned with a night-black dragon biting down upon its own tail fluttered in the chill wind.

The Black Army had arrived.

 _ **To be Concluded…**_


	3. Act III

Gargoyles _, co-created by Greg Weisman, is the property of the Walt Disney Company. Everything else belongs to history._

 _Special thanks as always to Masterdramon, Gryphinwyrm7 and BookwyrmPendragon13 for providing beta reading and feedback._

* * *

 **Castle Poenari, Wallachia,** **1476**

As twilight fell upon the Carpathian Mountains, Lord Bathory felt a surge of power and fury course through his veins unlike anything he had ever felt before. Clad in the coal-black armor of Hungary, he felt something of the Berserker spirit that had born his Ugric ancestors from the far frozen north in centuries past.

The Black Army assembled before the gates of Castle Poenari. As the last golden rays of sunlight slipped beneath the horizon, an unearthly chorus of demonic roars rose from the battlements on high.

Such a sound would have unnerved most men but Bathory only felt it inflame his hunger that much more. He longed to finally come to grips with the adversary, to slake the Red Thirst growing within. It took all his training, all his discipline not to hurl himself at the stone walls in a frenzy.

He raised his sword high before unleashing a ravenous howl. "ATTACK!"

[-]

The Second of the Carpathian Clan often slept in her workshop. There was something about the warmth of the forge that always made her feel rested and invigorated on awakening from stone sleep. Which made the chaos in the castle courtyard that much more jarring as a dozen gargoyles scrambled to the battlements.

"What on earth is happening?" she bellowed.

"The Impaler's dogs are at our gate!" a voice called from above.

She looked up to see her Leader and the red one descending to the courtyard.

"Sister, is the device ready?" Her Leader asked.

"Well… Yes, but we haven't tested it!" the Second protested.

"Test it now! We will delay them as long as possible."

The Second nodded, gesturing to some passing warriors to join her in the workshop.

"Brooklyn," the Carpathian Leader spoke. "I have no right to ask this of you, but someone must command the wall defenses."

"Done," he answered without a trace of hesitation. "But where will _you_ be?"

"Facing my demons."

[-]

Ever since drinking of the Dragon's Blood, the Hunter's senses had expanded farther then he had ever thought possible. He could feel every beam of the siege tower vibrate below him as it trundled closer to the castle walls. He could hear the heartbeats of each man who stood behind him. Most of all, he could smell his prey's blood on the wind.

He stood clad in the blood-red cloak and serpent-green tunic of the Dragon, a gift from his Master. The contingent of battle-hardened Szgany conscripts who awaited his command were another.

The siege towers had barely touched the stone edifice before the Hunter and his men were leaping over the castle walls. Attacking so quickly after sunset had thrown the demons off. They'd barely had time to organize their defenses before two more siege towers had disgorged their contents upon the battlements.

The Hunter turned as a roar shook the stones beneath him. A twilight-purple behemoth was hurtling towards him, barreling through the Szgany that stood between them as though they were made of paper. It was wingless, twin pale scars running down its back where mighty pinions must once have risen. Its eyes blazed like white stars as it closed the distance between them.

The Hunter stood his ground 'til he could feel the behemoth's rancid breath, then swung his mace. An instant later, the monster's limp form collapsed at his feet.

The Hunter took little satisfaction in the kill. He surveyed the chaos of man and demon that surrounded him until he found his true prey. Further down the battlements, engaging a pair of Szgany while barking orders to its comrades, was the red-skinned demon who had humiliated him in front of Bathory little over a week ago.

Beneath his mask, the Hunter smiled.

[-]

Near the banks of the Arges river, flowing far below Castle Poenari, a heavy boulder slowly rolled aside to revealed a crude tunnel. The sleek hooded form of the Carpathian Leader emerged, wrapped in a heavy grey traveling cloak. She was followed closely by a team of white horses drawing a large wooden cart, it's cargo concealed under a layer of heavy furs.

Her eyes smoldered a dull crimson as they drank in her surroundings. Snow covered the riverbank. On one side of the path lay the frozen river, on the other loomed the shadow haunted forest. Frost and silence conspired to give the landscape an unsettling aspect, as if she looked not upon the land itself but its ghost.

Her ears perked up as the sound of distant battle rolled down from the castle. Guilt and shame burned through the pit of her stomach like acid. Her clan, her rookery siblings were fighting and dying while she was trying to skulk away. It went against her every instinct, everything she'd been thought since she was a hatchling but it was necessary to secure her clan's future.

The horses neighed fretfully.

"Shhh… shhh… What's wrong, girls?" she whispered softly, trying to calm the panicking beasts. Something grey and shaggy leaped from the undergrowth. It landed on the lead mare's back, sinking gleaming white fangs into the poor creature's flank.

The night-winged gargoyle's eyes blazed scarlet as she struck with the flat of her silver edged ax, sending the rabid wolf flying across the snow. She swung again as another beast lunged from the shadows, and another. For each wolf she struck down, two more seemed to take its place.

By the time the Carpathian Leader had a chance to catch her breath, the horses were already dead. Their throats and bellies lay torn open. Dozens of wolves encircled her, keeping a respectful distance. Caution had overridden their hunger.

"Where are you?!" Her wings flared as she unleashed a pantherish roar to the starry sky above. "Is the Son of the Dragon such a coward that he sends his curs to task me?"

A wailing howl answered her challenge, before the wolves deferentially withdrew into the shadows.

A great black beast, larger than any of the others, padded forward brazenly. It's cold ice-blue eyes glinted like frozen shards, with an all too human amusement. The thing suddenly lurched up on its hind legs, snarling madly as its limbs began to bend and contort in ways no natural wolf's should.

The sable fur peeled away to reveal pale flesh and crimson armor. Stubby canine paws stretched into spider-like fingers tipped by long, almost talon-like nails. The slavering fanged jaw shrank into a no less predatory human leer. Only the pale icy eyes remained the same.

Vlad Dracula, Impaler Prince and Son of the Dragon, stood before her clad in full blood red plate mail. The now hollow eyes of his enchanted wolf-pelt glared balefully at the gargoyle from over his shoulder.

"Lilith…" he whispered coldly. "I named you well, it seems. You are every bit as treacherous and insolent as Adam's first wife."

" _That_ is not my name, Vlad!" she snarled, brandishing her ax. "I reject it! I reject everything it represents and most of all…"

"I. Reject. YOU!"

His eyes narrowed. "Have you no gratitude, child?"

"Gratitude?!" she bellowed.

"When you I first found you, you were nothing more than a quivering beast. I took you into my home, trained and molded you, groomed you to rule by my side and in return… you sold my kingdom to the Turk?"

"Because of _you_ ," she snarled. "My talons are stained with innocent blood, my daymares are filled with the screams of children and my clan teeters on the brink of extinction! It ends tonight, Vlad! Tonight, I send you back to whatever Hell you crawled from!"

She pounced, her ax swinging for the fiend's head, only to be blocked as he drew his longsword with a speed that she would have thought impossible in a human.

"Yes, child." He leered wolfishly. "Tonight it ends."

[-]

Brooklyn dispatched yet another human raider, sending the invader hurtling over the castle walls. His insides twisted at the sight. When his clan first awakened in Manhattan, he'd thought he'd left behind this world where being a protector meant dealing death to people whose names you didn't even know.

That was before the Phoenix.

Movement flickered in the corner of Brooklyn's eyes. His instincts carried him instantly down into a crouching duck as a heavy iron mace swung bare inches over his skull. The mace embedded itself deep in the castle wall, before its wielder wrenched it free with an inhuman surge of strength.

"DIE, DEMON!" the Hunter shrieked as he swung the weapon once more.

Fu-Dog lept from the shadows, landing atop the Hunter and biting deep into the human's shoulder, drawing forth a stream of wine dark blood. The agony of such an injury should have been unendurable for any human, yet the most the Hunter did was drop his mace. He reached back with both hands, gripping the beast by his golden collar before hurling him across the battlements.

Brooklyn's eyes flared with rage as he pounced, driving his broadsword deep into the Hunter's abdomen. To his shock, the Hunter surged forward along the blade. He delivered a vicious head-butt that broke Brooklyn's grip upon the hilt and sent the young gargoyle sprawling to the ground.

The Hunter loomed over his prey, eyes burning with hate and lust. He pulled the gargoyle's sword from his belly, indifferent to the further injuries he was causing himself.

"I told you I would be the last thing you ever see, demon!" he snarled, preparing to drive the now crimson blade into Brooklyn's heart.

Something like a small leather water-skin struck the Hunter's masked face. The missile's frail stitching tore and burst, soaking the human with clear liquid.

A second later the Hunter was writhing and screaming as though in pain beyond human endurance. The bloodstained broadsword clattered harmlessly to the ground as he staggered backwards blindly, before falling back over the castle walls and into the darkness below.

[-]

Bathory watched as Canmore's writhing form plummeted from the castle walls. He observed with disinterest as it hit the rocks below, landing with a bloody bone-crunching thud before continuing to tumbled down the mountain, dragging broken flailing limbs behind it.

"Pitiful," he snorted, before turning back to his troops. "Bring forth the Dragon!"

[-]

"Fu-Dog!" Brooklyn rushed to his beast's side. Fu-Dog was already back on his feet, shaking off a few flecks of debris as he licked his master's face, seemingly no worse for wear.

"Whew…" Brooklyn patted the beast's head. "Don't scare me like that, okay?"

the Ancestor landed by their side. She had discarded her tattered robes, revealing her 'arms' to be great membranous wings, making her seem even more like a giant bat than her clan-mates.

"Your sword," she offered, holding up the bloody blade.

"Thanks." He wiped the blade clean with a discarded rag. "What the Hell did you hit him with?"

"Consecrated water," she answered. "After all these years, I can practically smell the Taint. We've repelled the bulk of the Szgany raiders, and our Second reports your… contraption will be ready momentarily."

"Great,' he muttered. "All we gotta do now is stall them a little long…"

The Castle shook with what felt and sounded like a peal of thunder. The two gargoyles peered over the battlements.

"Not good," Brooklyn muttered.

Before the castle gates stood the largest battering ram he had ever seen. It was at least the diameter of a man across and its black iron head had been cast in the image of a snarling reptilian monstrosity. The mighty portal already began to shudder under its assault.

"Definitely not good."

[-]

The Carpathian Leader staggered back, her rear talons digging deep into the frozen ground beneath her feet. It was all she could do to hold her ground as Vlad's blade connected once more with her ax. The force of the impact was enough to shake her very bones.

"Strigoi!" she gasped between breaths.

"I am as far above those failed wretches as I once was above common men," he snarled, circling her, toying with her. "My old Master came to me while I languished in Corvinius' dungeon, He offered to restore my throne if I would only drink of the blood _He_ offered!" Vlad's blade swung again.

"The Master of the Scholomance promises naught but empty air, Vlad!" She gracefully dodged his blow. "When he is done with you, all that will be left is another cast off parasite, mindlessly counting the dust in some tomb 'til the end of time!"

"Do not presume to speak of things you know nothing of, child," he snarled. "When the time comes, I shall lead His armies in the re-conquest of Paradise itself and serve as His Viceroy upon this Earth!"

"For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?" She spotted an opening and swung again, only to stop short as a sudden shard of pain pierced her abdomen.

She looked down to see herself impaled upon Vlad's blade.

He grinned wickedly as their eyes met. "It profits him the World."

She finally collapsed to the ground, her warm blood spreading like a blossoming rose as it stained the snow. With barely the strength to raise her mace, let alone herself, she watched helplessly as he stalked towards the cart.

"Do not go into merciful oblivion just yet, Lilith," he called back to her. "Not until you have seen where the path of treachery inevitably leads. Not until you have watched your brood's future die!" And with one savage motion, he pulled back the concealing furs.

[-]

Lord Bathory leered viciously as the Dragon struck the castle portal again. Wood splintered and metal warped under the battle ram's assault. Any moment, the barrier would shatter completely and Poenari would belong to the Black Army. He practically salivated at the thought of the slaughter to come.

"My lord!?" a man-at-arms cried, pointing upwards.

Bathory stared upwards, bewildered, as though his brain did not understand what his eyes were telling it.

Something like a gigantic floating sack was rising swiftly from the castle. A large woven basket the size of a small cart, stuffed with straw and at least a dozen granite-grey eggs, hung suspended beneath by several ropes. Several airborne _ördögök_ pulled the strange craft through the sky, like a team of deer pulling a sled.

Bathory turned to find the bulk of his men staring with similar incomprehension. "Give me that!" he snarled, forcibly ripping an arbalest from the nearest soldier.

As he took aim at the craft, a savage roar pierced the night. A dozen _ördögök_ soared over head; hurling down rocks, boiling oil and any other missiles they could find upon the Black Army.

As a grey winged shape flitted past Bathory's vision, something like a frail water-skin burst across his face. The cold liquid within burned his flesh and literally boiled his blood on impact. His vision filled with crimson agony as he clutched his ruined visage.

[-]

Vlad stared up in uncomprehending fury at the bizarre craft that had risen from Castle Poenari and was now steadily soaring over the Carpathians. It would take the Black Army days to cross mountains that the airship would traverse in a matter of hours. Then he turned his gaze down at the broken cart at his feet, full of nothing but old pottery.

They could not outrace the storm.

He shut his eyes, whispering the words of power his Master had taught him. He imagined the icy winds tearing the frail craft from the sky, smashing it and its precious cargo against the unforgiving cliffs. He held that image in his mind, focusing all his will and fury and malice upon it.

Vlad let loose a howl of agony.

Just as he had begun to feel the clouds churn above, his concentration had been shattered by a burst of pain erupting from his shoulder. He opened his eyes to see a silver edged ax head buried deep in his shoulder blade. The excruciating agony coursing through his body made it impossible to focus on the subtle magics required for storm summoning.

Behind him, 'Lilith' lay dying in the snow, arm outstretched.

Vlad's vision filled with blood red mist.

[-]

Only a handful of gargoyles had managed to escape the castle. Most had been cut down by Hungarian arbalests while buying the eggs time to escape, plummeting to their deaths… or worse.

Brooklyn carried Fu-Dog as they soared alongside the Carpathian 'egg basket'. It wasn't quite as elegant as the models used by the Xanadu Clan but it got the job done.

He scanned the skies fitfully.

"Forget her," the voice of the Ancestor spoke curtly, gliding alongside him.

"What?"

"There is nothing more we can do for her," she spoke softly.

"What the Hell is that supposed to mean?" he demanded.

"Only that each of us is called upon in turn to lay down our lives for the clan," she intoned with fatalistic resignation. "It is the Gargoyle Way."

Brooklyn's eyes flared white. "Well, screw that!" as he broke away from the clan.

"Fool! You can't save her!" she bellowed after him before softly whispering to herself. "Poor young fool."

[-]

Brooklyn soared over the river valley, the biting Carpathian wind was beginning to numb his wings as he frantically scanned the landscape below. "Hey! Leader!? Lady?! FRIEND!? Crap, how the Hell did we last so long without freaking names?"

His eyes narrowed, focusing on a single darkened stain upon the pure white snow by the river bank, and saw something that chilled him more than any wind.

The Leader of the Carpathian Clan lay far below upon a bed of crimson. A wolf-like shadow with eyes like burning coals loomed over her. Brooklyn's own eyes blazed with white hot fury as he swooped down on the riverbank.

By the time he and Fu-Dog reached the ground, a lupine form was already limping into the undergrowth. The gargate beast was about to give chase only to be halted by the sight of his master kneeling by the side of the fallen Carpathian.

It was already too late.

Despite the severity of her injuries, Brooklyn couldn't help but think how… peaceful her face looked, as though some terrible burden had finally been lifted from her shoulders. The effect was only marred by slight trickle of red-black blood that stained her lips.

The silence was shattered by a raptor-like shriek as the Phoenix literally burned through time and space and back into existence before Brooklyn and Fu-Dog. Its vast flaming wings filled the sky above them.

"Seriously…?" he muttered as his eyes blazed white. "SERIOUSLY?! You pick NOW to show your beak!? Where the Hell were you earlier!? You could have prevented all this! You could have whisked them all off to Oz if you wanted!"

The Phoenix regarded the TimeDancer impassively. Not for the first time, Brooklyn wondered how eyes of literal living flame could look so cold.

"Nothing? Not even a damn apology, and now I'm supposed to just keep dancing to your tune like a good little puppet?!" He roared. "Give me one good reason I shouldn't just walk away right now?"

Fu-Dog's ears perked suddenly as he took a defensive position between his master and the woods.

Brooklyn could hear it too, the heavy hoof beats of at least a dozen horsemen. No doubt more Hungarian troops attracted by the giant flaming bird in the sky.

His eyes narrowed as he regarded the Phoenix.

[-]

 **Mount Kogaionon**

The Second of the Carpathian clan stood atop a cold barren peak hidden deep in the mountains. For centuries, the clan had lived in the ancient caves that riddled Mount Kogaionon. This was Holy Ground to the clan. It was here their Gallic ancestors had first settled over a millennium ago. It was here she and her sister had been hatched.

The mouse-brown giant sighed. "She's not coming… is she?"

"It has been three nights." The Ancestor sat atop a small boulder, scratching in the Earth with her cane. "She knew as long as she lived, the Impaler would never stop hounding us."

"I sometimes wonder," the Second began. "If I had said 'no' that night… perhaps…"

"Perhaps she would have snuck out on her own!" the Ancestor snapped, leaping from her perch to brandish her cane at the Second. "Or perhaps she would have tripped over a branch come next sunrise? Perhaps we'd all be dead now… hmm? A Leader cannot afford to indulge in what ifs and mayhaps!"

The mouse-brown giant was silent as the realization finally dawned on her.

"So… what now?" the Ancestor asked.

The new Leader looked out over the Carpathians. The mountain chain was like a vast cauldron which seemed to gather all Hell's sorcery and humanity's madness unto itself. "There's nothing for us here now. We'll take the eggs and survivors west, seek out our sister clans… if they still exist."

"A wise choice," the Ancestor nodded sagely. "I wish you Godspeed."

"You're not coming with us?!"

"My time is short. I have lived too long in these mountains to die anywhere else…" The Ancestors' eyes flared crimson. "And I have one final duty to perform."

[-]

 **Snagov Monastery,** **1477 A.D.**

The Abbot awoke in a cold sweat. For one mad moment he could hear the nightmare wolves still howling all about him. A moment later he realized it was only the wind. With a frustrated sigh, he sank back into the back breaking torture instrument he laughably called a mattress.

For three nights, the storm winds had howled about the monastery. For three nights, the same nightmare. Three nights since pilgrims to Snagov had stumbled upon the headless mangled corpse of the Impaler in a nearby marsh. There had been no sign of whoever, or whatever, had brought Vlad Dracula's final brief reign to such a grisly end.

Certainly, the Impaler had no shortage of enemies. Anyone from jealous Boyars to Turkish assassins may have been responsible. By God, even the Abbot would have happily gutted the bastard himself if he thought he could get away with it.

Of course the pious idiots had insisted on bearing the body back to Snagov for burial. Never mind the "Noble Voivode" had been a sorcerer, a murder and a heretic. Never mind Vlad had ruled for years in absolute decadence while the Abbot had spent most of his life languishing in one monastery or another.

Dracul had been a harsh and demanding Patriarch and despite being the eldest son, the Abbot had never enjoyed his father's favor. While Micrea, Vlad and Radu had been groomed to rule, he had been quietly shuffled off into the priesthood and forgotten.

Had it been up to the Abbot, he would have tossed Vlad's carcass to the wolves and let them have their way with it. But he _was_ the Abbot and there were certain conventions that had to be upheld. And so, Prince Vlad Dracula had been solemnly interred in a place of honor within the Chapel of the Annunciation.

Still, with the Impaler safely buried in his tomb and the Throne of Wallachia temporarily empty, there might be certain… opportunities for the last living son of Dracul.

The Abbot had almost drifted back to sleep when the ground beneath him softly trembled. For a moment he wondered if he was dreaming, before one of the younger monks burst through the door in a panic. "Abbot! You must come quickly!"

"What is it, Brother…?" The Abbot cursed himself as he rubbed the rime from his eyes. He could barely tell one of these idiots from another.

"It is the Chapel of the Annunciation, Abbot! It…" the young monks voice dropped low. "It is the tomb."

The Abbot hurried across small island of Snagov, rain soaking through even his heavy robe as the night winds whipped it about him. He could just make out the vague shadow of the chapel ahead when a flash of lightning illuminated the sky, instantly burning the scene into his mind's eye.

The once proud bell tower of the chapel had collapsed into the lake. The heavy wooden doors had been ripped from their hinges, nowhere to be seen. A dozen younger monks congregated fearfully before the now empty aperture. Beyond the threshold, nothing could be seen but Stygian black.

"What are you idiots doing out here?" He roared over the wind. "Why are you all huddled in the rain like damp sheep!?"

"We heard sounds within the chapel, Abbot," one of them mumbled. "We didn't know what to do?"

"Faithless superstitious dolts! Do you actually fear to enter the house of our Lord because it is dark?!" The abbot bellowed as he strode defiantly into the darkened chapel, pausing to surreptitiously light a devotional candle once he was beyond his underlings' vision.

The eyes of long martyred saints glared down accusingly as the Abbot crept through the chapel. He led prayers in this same edifice several times a day and could have walked through its pews blindfolded, yet he still held the candle high as he drew nearer the altar. It was the then that he saw what defied faith and reason alike.

The mighty flat tombstone before the altar, upon which was inscribed the name of the late Impaler, had been cracked into several stone shards that jutted from the chapel's mosaic tiled floor as though broken… from beneath. His fingers clenched around the candle as he peered over into the tomb below.

It was empty.

The Abbot just stood there, staring unblinkingly into the abyss. His mind raced as it spun an elaborate tale of daring tomb robbers, desperately trying to bolster his sanity. He'd almost managed to convince himself when a chill wind snuffed out his candle.

A foul stench like stagnant water began to fill the Abbot's nostrils. From behind came a soft slow clip-clop upon the tiled floor like cloven… boots, hard soled boots! One of the other monks must have grown concerned and come to check on him.

The Abbot stood absolutely still as he felt the vast shadow loom over him. Then… something whispered softly in his ear.

"Why do you seek Death, when He shall seek you in His own time?"

Until the day he died almost two decades later, Brother Călugărul; Abbot of Snagov and last son of Dracul, could never clearly remember what exactly happened next. Later, the other monks would tell him that he ran screaming from the Chapel of the Annunciation and dived frantically into the lake surrounding their island monastery, that he had to be forcibly dragged from the water before drowning himself.

Had he the presence of mind to listen at the time, he may have heard amid the rage of the thunder and the howls of the night winds high above… the sound of dark mocking laughter.

[-]

 **The River Tiber, Italy, 12 A.D.**

Brooklyn screwed his eyes tight against the searing flames. The next thing the TimeDancer knew, both he and Fu-Dog were landing forcefully upon a hard wooden surface. The floor seemed to sway gently beneath them and the air was noticeably warmer than the bitter Carpathian winds.

Still sprawled on the ground, Brooklyn looked up at a small contingent of soldiers in what appeared to be ancient Roman armor pointing weapons at him.

"Great" he muttered.

 _ **Never the End…**_

* * *

 _Brooklyn will return in_ TimeDancer: Vessels _by_ _Gryphinwyrm7_


End file.
